Sherlock & His Angel
by lucifer-sweet-lucifer
Summary: The first fic I ever wrote (from several years back). Kid!Sherlock has some troubles, and finds himself being comforted by a little angel of sorts.


Sherlock: Fanfiction: First Draft: Written: 2.11.13 Catriana Hall

The taunts rung out. The other kids laughed and ran off to go play with balls and ropes. But one lonely little boy was left being. His tears welled up in his eyes, like an overflowing pitcher of ice-cold water. This little boy cried like this every day. From the back row of the cold, hard desks, an occasional sob would reach the ears of the merciless front-row students. Every day Sherlock Holmes felt more alone than the last, the taunts had already begun playing with his magnificent mind, while slowly crushing his heart.

One day, Sherlock trudged home in the freezing rain, ignoring his brother's outstretched hand. He ran ahead, umping in every puddle, walking on every sidewalk. Mycroft knew the pain his little brother had to endure, and it broke his heart seeing Sherlock that way. He too walked in the downpour, turning up the color of his coat against the wind. Sherlock looked up at him. His dazzling blue eyes begged for love, but the rest of his body shrunk away from his older brother. He reached up, turning his own collar up, too, just like his brothers. Mycroft managed a weak smile.

Sherlock ran into the house, like he was possessed by a sudden impulse, and bolted to his room. He shared a little room with his older brother, hanging up pirate maps and drawing of ships he longed to someday set sail upon. Later that night, when all the lights were out and Mycroft was fast asleep, Sherlock crawled out of bed, not even bothering to slip on shoes and ran outside. He sat on the hard but muddy ground, imagining a faraway place. Someplace where he could have a friends. Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined such a world a world where he could not be teased or taunted. Where no one would be allowed to shove him or steal his books. A world where he could sail pirate ships all day, and still have a home to come to at night. A world far away from here.

He dozed off, lying amongst the herbs in the overgrown garden.. In his dreams he could not feel the rain drizzle down his exposed neck. He could not feel his hands and feel turn icy blue. He did not hear someone approaching, propping up a black umbrella over his tiny body, wrapping a blue scarf around his frozen neck. He did not hear the voice reading from his favourite storybook. He did not feel his brothers loving touch as the rain still poured on.

A few minutes after sunrise, Sherlock jerked awake to the sound of birds serenading the world. He rushed into the house, only to be sent by his mother to take a bath. At the breakfast table, he did not at. He never seemed to eat anything, though his body remained energetic. He did not notice that Mycroft's favourite blue scarf was not on its proper hook, and that is very own favourite book of pirate tales was lying on a table by the door. Mycroft thanked their mother and pulled on his coat, allowing Sherlock time enough to clean up the dishes. Sherlock's mother sighed at the sight of yet another plate of untouched food coming from her youngest child. He turned away; his ebony hair bouncing with a sense of joy that had not come from him in a very long time. It was just like any other day, save for one thing. Sherlock was not his usual self; he did not run ahead on the road to the school, eager to escape the company of any person at all. Instead he hung back with his older brother. Though he did walk at Mycroft's set pace, he would not allow himself to take a hold of Mycroft's outstretched hand. Not yet.

In the school yard, Mycroft said good bye, then turned to the building for the older students. Sherlock spun on his heel to look at his own school buildings, only to discover a hoard of other children waiting for him. He thought that maybe, just maybe, they were here to play with him, but then he thought better. The other kids shoved him and taunted him,. They ripped pages out of his pirate book, making paper airplanes out of the loose pieces of broken-hearted paper. Their empty voices formed hurtful words that echoed around Sherlock's wonderful mind. He ran off. He would never allow those other school children to see him cry. Those tears were his own, and he wanted to never allow another person to see them.

The bell rang as it always had, and the students rushed indoors, as they always had, Sherlock sat in the farthest seat from the door, just as he always had. But his usually sharp ears were not tuned into the teacher's monotonous voice. Instead, the allowed the empty words lecture on about anything and everything, the words echoing off of empty walls, walls that separated Sherlock from the rest of the world. While the words bounced off those cold, hard walls, Sherlock's mind wandered off into a world of his own. He hardly heard the bell ring for lunch for he was so buried in thought. As he stood up, unaware of what he was doing, crystal tears began to fall from his eyes. Though his tears were full of heart, his eyes were calm. A peaceful calm. Like a sea after a storm. He walked over to the window, pressing his hand against the glass, jerking it back when the cold reached out and bit him, like a threatened cat. He turned his back to the window, facing away from the sunlight, his face cast in shadows. Sherlock imagined what would be happening in his world, what would be going on in his mind palace right now. He imagines laughter and joys, pirate and ships, the very ones he had invented the previous night. He imagined the same wonderful world where he was accepted and respected.

Sherlock was no longer in the dreary world where his body was trapped; he was in his mind's realm. Yet even in his mind palace, he was still standing, back facing the window, in the cold empty classroom. The other kids were still outside, eating and playing without him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move his feet. He tried and tried again, but his attempts were futile. Sherlock tried to wake up, be back in reality, where he could at least have comfort in knowing he could move. But try as he might, he could not wake up. Finally, he reached out for his school books, clutching them close to his chest, the tears yet again began to well up in his eyes. But before a single drop could reach the blue floor, he suddenly was unable to cry. His heart began to be comforted. He gave out a little cry of shock, only to yet again be comfortable with his surroundings. He felt a little breeze blow by him, and looked over at his left shoulder. Sitting there was a peculiar creature, but one composed of such beauty as to take the breath away of any little boy.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to remember what the real world felt like. The tiny angel next to him not only calmed him down, but made him forget his real life. A voice rung softly in his head, and although most of it, Sherlock could not make out, he did hear the words "because you asked for a friend, and that's what I am" Sherlock suddenly jerked awake, completely aware that he was lying on the ground in a puddle outside the school. He realised that he had been walking the entire time he was in his mind's world. Looking around like the small, frightened child he was, Sherlock discovered he had fallen down on the doorstep of an apartment on a busy street of London. Pulling out a pencil and his map of the country, he scribbled down the name of the address, determined to return. Sherlock ran the rest of the way home, not even bothering to return to school for the rest of the day, or even to pick up his school books or pirate stories. Sprinting down the sidewalks and across the bridges, a tiny body could be seen weaving in and out of the towering adults.

Later that night, Mycroft demanded to know where Sherlock had been. He told the family of how there were rumors that Sherlock had truly run off, or that he'd been kidnapped, or worse, killed. Sherlock blew these stories off, but it made him feel just a little bit warmer inside knowing that his brother had been worried. As soon as he realised that he was glad to be sitting at a table with his older brother, Sherlock dismissed the thought, blushing slightly. He scolded himself internally for being soft and foolish. Mycroft asked Sherlock where he had been, and Sherlock pulled out his map. He pointed to the space on the map where he had woken up. Sherlock told them the story of how he ran around London a bit, then ran all the way home, leaving out the details regarding his trip to his mind palace. Mycroft asked Sherlock what the address was, declaring Sherlock's handwriting illegible. Sherlock proudly remarked: "221B Baker Street".

The next morning, Sherlock woke up and had a usual day. The day after was the same as before. For four months, Sherlock waited for his angel friends to appear again. As he grew older, he told himself it was silly. The angel was just an imaginary creature, and it was hopeless to attempt to contact it. Then one June day, Sherlock suddenly forgot all about his strange day in school.

~ 29 years later ~

There was a slight breeze as the sterile lab doors opened, revealing two men entering the room. Sherlock looked up at the newcomers. A slight expression of shock, fear, and joy ran through his face in a second, disappearing into the air at the blink of an eye. Sherlock suddenly remembered his childhood friend, the little imaginary angel. One of the two newcomers looked around the lab, looking out of place. His face was so familiar. So, so familiar. Sherlock felt a slight rush of adrenaline flow through his body. The face of that man, the out-of-place newcomer, was the exact same as that of Sherlock's childhood angel. Before Sherlock could comment, the third man in the room cleared his throat and said "Sherlock, meet Dr. John Watson."


End file.
